


make you boil up (baby, let it simmer)

by nahco3



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 08:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21116111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: five times Kyle and DeMar tried to figure it out plus the one time they did





	make you boil up (baby, let it simmer)

**Author's Note:**

> for the anon who said "WRITE THE PORN BITCH" xoxoxoxox

**one**

The first time they hook up, DeMar’s pretty sure he’s ruined things forever. They’re lying on his couch, making out; DeMar pulled Kyle on top of him. It’s like high school, sort of. DeMar keeps his hands soft on Kyle’s waist, not to pressure him. Everything between them feels so fragile.

DeMar’s hips move up helplessly against Kyle’s thigh. He breaks off the kiss for just a second, so he can nuzzle at Kyle’s neck, press a kiss there, then another one. Kyle’s hands are on his shoulders, gripping tight, at odds with the languid ease of his body. DeMar pulls back, just a little.

“Don’t worry,” he says, running his hand up and down Kyle’s back, under his shirt, mapping out the planes of muscle he’s spent so many hours gazing at. “I’m not gonna give you a hickey.” It’s the middle of the season.

Kyle laughs. DeMar doesn’t get why, is worried it’s at him, that he’s done something wrong. He’s never been with a guy before. Thought about it plenty, even before he met Kyle. After Kyle, it was consuming, the kind of want he couldn’t sublimate into basketball, couldn’t explain away. After practice, after Kyle hanging off his back, tugging him down to whisper some stupid joke in his ear, he’d jerk off in bed. Wondering what it would feel like to suck Kyle off, what Kyle’s hands would feel like on his dick. If Kyle would laugh, during. In the shower, once, he’d worked a finger inside himself, just to prove he could, came so hard he felt lightheaded.

Kyle pushes himself up, half-sitting on DeMar and DeMar sits up too so they can face each other. Kyle has an expression on that DeMar recognizes and doesn’t like: a curl to his lips but no smile in his eyes. 

“Kyle?” DeMar asks, wanting to reach out and touch his face but not sure what’s allowed. 

“You’re sweet,” Kyle says. DeMar can’t tell if it’s a compliment or not. “Want a blowjob?”

DeMar startles, can feel himself getting harder. Kyle can tell, and he smirks, shifting so he can grind his ass down into DeMar’s dick.

“I haven’t, ever,” DeMar says. Kyle’s lips are plush, have a sheen to them. DeMar just wants to kiss Kyle again.

“Don’t worry,” Kyle says, pushing himself back to settle between DeMar’s legs. “I’ve been with enough guys for both of us.” 

Something sparks through DeMar, like fire, a useless surge of jealousy, of desire, and he grabs for Kyle’s shoulders, pulls him back up and kisses him. Kyle’s flush to his chest, arms coming up around him, and DeMar gets a hand on the small of his back to have him even closer. 

This time, when DeMar pulls back, they’re both breathing hard. 

“Can we just make out?” DeMar asks, unable to meet Kyle’s eyes. He trusts Kyle more than anyone, but that doesn’t make it easy to ask. There’s a lot in his chest right now, almost too much. He doesn’t want to let Kyle down; even thinking Kyle might feel that way makes his throat close up. But he wants time, wants the slow slide of skin against skin. Can’t let this be something they do once and regret. 

“Yeah,” Kyle says, “just don’t freak out on me.” DeMar has to shut his eyes at the words, lets out a long breath for a count of seven. There’s white panic in his veins, his dick getting softer, cold sweat on the back of his neck. He had a girlfriend who — she’d tell him that when — his heart’s pounding in his chest.

“Hey, hey,” Kyle says, getting off his lap and sliding in next to him. There’s a moment of hesitation, and then he puts his hand on DeMar’s back, between his shoulder blades, firm. DeMar can feel the hot pressure of tears behind his eyes. “Big guy, it’s ok.” 

DeMar nods, blinking furiously to keep from crying. It’s ok. He’s fine. He really is. He reaches out blindly and grabs Kyle’s hand, holds it tight. 

Kyle goes still, no longer rubbing little circles over DeMar’s spine. He squeezes DeMar’s hand, once, so light DeMar barely feels it.

“It’s ok,” Kyle says again. DeMar uses his other hand to wipe his eyes, bites his lips. Focuses on Kyle’s steady breath next to him, until his mind finally goes still.

**two**

They’re in Milwaukee, of all places, before it happens again. It’s been weeks of Kyle being determinedly loud, the center of every joke and the heart of every play. Weeks of DeMar trying to go on like normal, putting back alley-oops from Kyle and going to lunch with him like nothing’s changed, like he hasn’t fucked up the one good thing in his life.

They’re drunk and it’s late, the rest of the team peeling off one by one, until it’s just the two of them. Kyle lets them into his room, giggling, and it isn’t until DeMar flops down on his bed, diagonally, so his feet won’t hang off the end, that he realizes they haven’t been alone like this since. Since they kissed.

Kyle throws him a bottle of water from the mini-bar. DeMar’s too slow to catch it and it thuds on his chest. The dull pain doesn’t really register.

“Hydrate or die,” Kyle says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking a long drink from his own bottle. DeMar watches his throat work, the small stream of water that escapes his lips and runs down his neck. 

Kyle must feel the weight of DeMar’s gaze, because he looks back at DeMar. Something in Kyle shifts; something in how he carries himself, the set of his shoulders. A change in the light of his eyes.

“Thirsty?” Kyle asks, taking a long pull from his water bottle, then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. DeMar bites the inside of his lip, pushes himself up. He ends up closer to Kyle, what feels like inches apart. 

DeMar takes the water bottle out of Kyle’s hand, takes a pull. He imagines he can still feel the warmth of Kyle’s mouth lingering. Kyle’s watching him right back and DeMar heats up with it. 

Kyle moves into closer towards him; Kyle’s hands resting on DeMar’s thighs. DeMar tries to put the water bottle on the floor, but ends up kissing Kyle instead, the water bottle spilling on the floor as Kyle climbs into his lap.

DeMar’s starving for it, for Kyle’s touch and the slide of his skin, didn’t let himself realize how badly until he has him back. He brings his arms up, one hand on the back of Kyle’s head, the other resting just above Kyle’s hip. Kyle’s gripping DeMar’s shirt, melting into him. 

Their noses bump and then they’re kissing, Kyle opening his mouth and letting DeMar in. It’s nothing like how he remembered; from black and white to full color, blowing out his senses. 

“Kyle,” he says, into the kiss. He doesn’t want to think too much, fuck it up, wants to let his body take control. 

“Mmm,” Kyle hums, leaning his head back, so DeMar bites down on his neck, just for a second before he can check the impulse. Kyle shudders; DeMar grabs tighter at his hip and Kyle grinds down against him. 

Experimentally, carefully, DeMar pulls Kyle’s collar down, bites again at the soft skin at the base of his throat. Kyle lets out a sharp, cut-off noise. DeMar pulls back to look at him, and Kyle’s eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown. Whatever’s happening, he likes it. That’s good, means DeMar hasn’t already fucked everything up. 

He tries kissing Kyle again, worrying at Kyle’s lips. Kyle seems to like that too, rocking his hips back and down against DeMar. He tugs at the hem of Kyle’s shirt and Kyle pulls it off, obliging. It’s different than he imagined it. He always thought it would be Kyle, a little bossy, like he is on the court, so particular about the angle of every pass. But Kyle’s melting against him, soft, yielding. 

DeMar tips Kyle back onto the bed and Kyle goes; takes his shirt off and Kyle watches, eyes hungry, but doesn’t touch until DeMar settles onto him. DeMar fits himself around Kyle’s thighs, pushes into Kyle, and Kyle arches his back, rolls his hips. 

“Good?” DeMar asks. 

“Yeah,” Kyle says, his voice rough. DeMar kisses him again and again, running his hands over Kyle’s chest. They kiss and kiss, and DeMar thinks he could come just like this, just from pushing up against Kyle’s thigh like a teenager. He’s acutely conscious, though, that last time Kyle wanted more, that he’s probably fucked lots of guys, guys who knew what they were doing and how to make it good. 

He tugs at Kyle’s pants, unwilling to break the kiss, but Kyle pulls back from him. 

“I got this,” he says, shimmying out from under DeMar. Kyle licks his hand, sucks on his fingers while undoing DeMar’s fly with his other hand, expert. DeMar’s mouth goes dry and Kyle smirks at him, draws him out and starts jerking him off.

DeMar grabs for Kyle, pulling him in to kiss again. Kyle lets out a huff of surprise, but it’s lost in the kiss. DeMar shuts his eyes, fucking Kyle’s hand, gripping Kyle tight. He feels lightheaded with it, frantic, and he doesn’t try to last. It feels too good, Kyle pressed to his side, the calluses of his hand. He comes like that and Kyle works him through it. Gravity feels twice as heavy, pressing DeMar soft and safe down into the bed, his mind just white noise. His heart still hammering, he turns on his side. 

Kyle’s jerking himself off, his hand down his pants, eyes shut, kissed lips buttoned up tight. DeMar reaches out for him, trying to tug at Kyle’s pants and get his hand on Kyle at the same time. 

Kyle’s eyes spring open, locked on DeMar. 

“Can I?” DeMar asks. 

“You don’t have to,” Kyle says, but his eyes are big and black, and he’s leaning in towards DeMar. DeMar manages to get his pants open, trying to push them down over Kyle’s hips.

“Your ass,” DeMar complains, and Kyle huffs out a laugh. 

“You love my ass,” he says, lifting his hips so that DeMar can get his pants down. 

“I do,” DeMar says, voice too deep and honest, and Kyle goes abruptly still and silent. Not knowing what else to do, DeMar kisses Kyle again, wrapping his hand around Kyle’s dick. It’s already slick, and with a start, DeMar realizes it’s because Kyle was using DeMar’s come to jerk off. Desire shudders through him again, hot and insistent. 

“Jesus,” he says, into Kyle’s mouth. He tries to focus on making it good for Kyle, listening to the sounds he’s making, following the cues of his body. Kyle relaxes bit by bit, holding his hips still and letting DeMar work him. DeMar tightens his grip and Kyle makes a punched-out sound. When he holds Kyle’s hip in place with his other hand and Kyle presses his face into DeMar’s shoulder.

DeMar might not know what he’s doing with guys, but he knows Kyle, knows how to read the slant of his shoulders and the angle of his hips, the language of his body. He puts a little more firmness into his grip, a little more of his strength into the hand on Kyle’s hips. His fingers dig in to the edge of Kyle’s ass, leaving perfect indentations, and Kyle’s dick jumps in his hand. 

Kyle’s quiet, his eyes squeezed shut, the only sounds he’s making his harsh inhales. DeMar tries to kiss him again, but Kyle can’t quite seem to, bringing his hands up to clutch at DeMar’s shoulders, then to push them away. His mouth is moving soundlessly, his fists clenching and unclenching. DeMar can feel Kyle leaking at the tip when he runs his thumb over it.

“Tell me what you need,” he says, low and purposeful. Kyle convulses against him, and DeMar loosens his grip just a little, draws his hand back. Kyle tries to chase it with his hips but DeMar holds him in place. “Let me give it to you.”

“Fuck,” Kyle says, his voice wrecked. He’s still trying to fuck DeMar’s hand, DeMar keeping the abortive half-movements of his hips in check. He’s getting hard again. He wants to make Kyle feel good, dangerously, terrifyingly much.

“Tell me,” he says, squeezing Kyle’s hips. “I’ll do it.” 

He can feel the moment Kyle lets go, his body going loose against DeMar’s, his breath wet. 

“Hit me,” Kyle says, small and quiet into the junction of DeMar’s shoulder, sounding different from how he’s ever been. “Please.”

For a second DeMar isn’t sure he can, the sharp stab of want going through him at war with the dull ache of tenderness. 

He flips Kyle onto his back, straddles his knees so he can keep a hand on Kyle’s dick. Kyle’s eyes are the endless black of the Pacific at night, his lips parted. DeMar kisses him; can’t not, pushes their hips together. Kyle spreads his legs, rocks up against him.

“You don’t have to,” Kyle says, in one frantic breath, when DeMar pulls back, just minutely. “It’s fine. I don’t need. I can. Let me.” He’s trying to reach down for DeMar.

“Hey,” DeMar says, the decision made for him. He grabs Kyle’s wrists, pins them one-handed above Kyle’s head and watches Kyle go silent. Kyle presses his dick helplessly up against DeMar. “I said I would.”

Kyle lets out a tiny sound, not even a moan. DeMar kisses Kyle again, his mouth loose, offering DeMar no resistance. He pulls back; centers himself. Gets a hand back on Kyle’s dick. Kyle’s watching him the whole time, his body somewhere between lax and tense. When DeMar releases Kyle’s wrists and draws back his hand Kyle’s looking up at DeMar with such naked desire, DeMar can’t stop himself. He slaps Kyle, hard, on the cheek, the noise ringing through the hotel room, the sting in his palm traveling up his arm like electricity.

Kyle comes in his hand with a shaking, punched-out noise, and DeMar’s presses back down onto him, strokes him through it. He kisses Kyle’s cheek, frantically, imagines he can still feel the hot mark of his hand there. 

DeMar can feel the fine tremors ripping through Kyle in waves, aftershocks, and he can’t stop himself. He pushes against Kyle’s stomach, slick and messy already, and comes against him.

DeMar lies there, unable to support himself, giving all his weight over to Kyle, his heart hammering in his chest. He runs a hand absently up and down Kyle’s arm, can still feel the gently subsiding shakes. He hopes he did the right thing.

“Damn, Deebo,” Kyle says, and his voice sounds almost normal, unaffected. DeMar’s not sure how he’s even talking right now. He pushes himself out from under DeMar, grabbing a tshirt off the floor. He tries to wipe his stomach clean; DeMar can see his hands are unsteady. 

“Let me,” DeMar says, his voice a rasp. Kyle draws back from him, shaking his head. 

“Nah,” Kyle drawls, “it’s good.” He throws the shirt back onto the floor, stretches. “I’m gonna go shower.”

DeMar gets up to follow. He feels disoriented, like his hearing is coming in and out. He’s never hit someone before, really. Let alone someone he’s in love with; let alone during sex. DeMar knows Kyle wanted it, knows he asked for it. A thought curls up from somewhere deep in him, _begged for it_, smokey and satisfied. It scares him. He doesn’t want to hurt Kyle. There are already so many ways for this to go wrong, so many ways for DeMar to wreck everything between them. What if this is the way he does? 

Kyle looks up, meeting his eyes in the bathroom mirror. He looks surprised but DeMar can’t stop to parse it, his mind swirling. He collapses forward into Kyle, half-turning him so he can kiss his mouth again and again. Kyle turns the rest of the way into him, giving off a small oof when DeMar pushes him frantically up against the bathroom counter. DeMar runs his hands up and down Kyle’s arms, unable to settle himself, unable to be normal. 

Kyle puts his hands carefully on DeMar’s chest, pushes back just the slightest amount. DeMar recoils from him, heart pounding in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he babbles, pulling his hands away. “I’m so sorry.” 

Kyle’s lips are bitten plush: DeMar did that. There’s still streaks of come on his stomach and DeMar did that too, after he hit Kyle and got off on it. His breath is speeding up.

“It’s fine,” Kyle says. He grabs a towel and wraps it around himself, then hitches himself up so he’s sitting on the counter. He’d be at eye level with DeMar if DeMar could look up, meet his eyes. Kyle leans his head back, DeMar hear the gentle thud as it hits the wall. When DeMar risks looking up, Kyle’s looking at the ceiling. 

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” Kyle says. “Really.” 

“Oh,” DeMar says. It probably isn’t. What did Kyle say, that he’d been with enough guys for both of them? Guys who could do whatever Kyle needed. “It was ok though, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Kyle says, sounding exhausted, his eyes shut. “It was ok.”

**three**

He doesn’t play great on the road trip; they mostly win anyway. When the team gets back to Toronto, DeMar tells Coach he’s going to spend some extra time in the gym, after practice.

“Good,” Coach says, clapping him on the shoulder. DeMar pastes on a smile, sets his shoulders. It’s better to be the one who goes to the coaches with the cracks in his game, so they know he’s paying attention, know how much he cares. 

“Want to get dinner?” Kyle asks, when Coach drifts away from the conversation. 

“I can’t,” DeMar says. “After the road trip. I gotta.” 

“Oh,” Kyle says. He looks like he’s searching for a joke and can’t come up with one. 

“Could you stay, maybe?” DeMar asks, eyes darting down to his hands then back up to Kyle. It wouldn’t have been weird to ask, last month. It probably still isn’t. Kyle stays after practice all the time to help guys out, mostly the rookies, but the vets too. He sees everything. “I could use the help on my jump shot.” 

“Shit,” Kyle drawls. “I could use help on my jumpshot.” 

“Fuck off,” DeMar says, bumping his hips into Kyle’s waist.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kyle says. “Let’s see what you got.” 

They end up playing for a while. DeMar means to do drills, but it’s hard to resist the temptation of going against Kyle. It won’t help his game very much but there’s something intoxicating about Kyle pressed up against him, fighting him for the ball. 

Kyle makes the most of his ass, pushing back against DeMar to try to make space. It’s a move that DeMar uses, that thousands of guys in thousands of games have used to get their defender back on their hip, but somehow, this time, it hits him in the gut. 

His fingers brush against the ball, but he can’t maintain control, and it bounces away. DeMar expects Kyle to pull away, to grab the ball, but he doesn’t. Instead, he huffs a laugh.

“You like that,” he says. DeMar can’t read his voice, doesn’t have time to parse it because Kyle rolls his hips back against him. DeMar’s getting hard; knows Kyle can feel it. He can’t stop looking at the fine sheen of sweat on the back of Kyle’s neck, thinking he could dig his teeth into the soft skin coming up from underneath his jersey. His hands come to rest on Kyle’s hip bones.

“On the court,” Kyle says, grinding back. “Kinky.” 

DeMar runs his hand down, into Kyle’s shorts. Kyle’s wearing leggings underneath, but it doesn’t matter. He’s hard against DeMar’s hand. 

“Here?” Kyle asks, and he sounds desperate, uncertain. 

“Locker room,” DeMar says, but he rocks his dick forward against Kyle’s ass anyway, just once, just to feel how much Kyle likes it. Kyle nods, head hanging forward a little, panting, getting harder.

DeMar’s the one who tugs them into the locker room. There are probably some assistant coaches still around but DeMar can’t bring himself to care. They kiss for the first time when DeMar presses Kyle against the wall, just inside the door. Kyle grabs at DeMar’s shoulders and DeMar gets his hands on Kyle’s skin, up under his shirt, his fingers counting up and down the notches of Kyle’s spine. 

Kyle moans and DeMar bites his lip as a reward, his control rapidly fraying. Kyle’s pressed against him, but DeMar hooks his leg around Kyle’s to get them that little bit closer, to hem Kyle in even more against him. One of his hands is against the wall, to give him a little extra leverage, the other spread out over the small of Kyle’s back, his pinkie dipping under the elastic of Kyle’s compression tights. Kyle shudders against him.

He pulls back, feeling hulking, too big, clumsy, but Kyle’s breathing is audible and rapid. He’s grabbing at the front of DeMar’s shirt, pulling him back in, pressing forward and up.

“Good?” DeMar asks, his hand shaking against the warmth of Kyle’s skin from the effort of holding it still.

Kyle nods, pulling DeMar’s shirt taut against his shoulders as he kisses him again. “What do you want?” he asks, into the space between their mouths, then kisses DeMar again before DeMar can answer, like he’s worried DeMar will stop him.

DeMar wants too much to say. It’s hard to think when Kyle is pressed against him. He kisses Kyle to try to clear his mind but it has the opposite effect, makes him frantic, makes him feel like Kyle’s slipping away from him even though he can feel every inch of Kyle, the pressure of his dick against DeMar’s thigh, the movements of his hips, the heave of chest and his harsh exhales. He presses his fist into the wall so hard it hurts, digs his nails into his own palm, trying to keep a hold of himself. 

_I want to suck you off_, he thinks, shaky with it. Despite himself, his free hand comes off the wall, sinks into Kyle’s hair, pulls his head back so that DeMar can lean down and bite at his exposed neck. Kyle’s grip on him goes slack, his head thudding back against the wall. He’s worried he’ll be bad at it, that Kyle won’t want him after. His thumb is stroking against Kyle’s pulse point and Kyle whines from the back of his throat. DeMar wants to take him apart, pushes Kyle’s hips back against the wall with his other hand, caught in the ferocity of the thought. 

He tries to gather himself, rubs his nose against the stubble hiding just below the angle of Kyle’s jaw, inhales the smell of him, just a little. It’s easier to think about asking when he doesn’t have to see Kyle’s face, can just concentrate on the feelings surrounding him. 

“Would you. Can I. Maybe blow —” _you_, he means to finish. Kyle gasps and drops to his knees like his strings have been cut, his forehead pressed to DeMar’s stomach, mouthing at DeMar’s dick through his shorts, his shaking hands pulling at DeMar’s waistband.

“Kyle,” DeMar says, off-balance, one hand still on the back of Kyle’s neck, the other holding his weight up. Before he can stay anything else, Kyle’s taking him down, making a soft satisfied sound he feels more than hears.

It takes everything DeMar has to hold himself still, his muscles quivering with the effort like he’s just played triple overtime. The back of his throat is dry, almost painful, his breaths ripped out of him. 

Kyle pulls back, his mouth coming off DeMar with a wet pop and DeMar has to rest his head against the wall. There isn’t enough air in the room, in the whole world. He squeezes Kyle’s neck, trying to convey some portion of the vast wordless chest-aching desperation he feels, and Kyle nods against his hips. 

DeMar feels like such a fucking idiot. He remembers last time, constantly, in his dreams and late at night after games, jerking off frantically. Kyle likes — Kyle wants. He doesn’t want DeMar to treat him carefully, softly, like they’re in love. He tightens his grip and when Kyle opens his mouth again, DeMar fucks into it. He tries not to be gentle. He’s hyper-aware of Kyle, prepared to stop if Kyle tenses under him. Instead, Kyle goes limp and when DeMar looks down, his eyes are shut, his face tilted slightly upward, lips soft and wet like a bruised peach around the head of DeMar’s dick. He’s jerking himself off. 

DeMar pushes in, harder, pulls Kyle’s head forward to meet his hips. Kyle gives off a rumble of pleasure and DeMar takes it as approval and permission. 

“Look at you,” he says, wonderingly. Kyle looks like a dream DeMar’s had all his life, one he’s never been able to remember until now. He cups the back of Kyle’s head, savoring how perfectly it fits his palm. Kyle whines and DeMar fucks his face with long, uneven thrusts, forgetting to be good, to be gentle, forgetting everything but how Kyle’s mouth feels. He squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lips and holds Kyle’s head pressed to his stomach as he comes down his throat, feels his throat work as he swallows. 

The guilt hits him before he’s stopped shaking. He drops, kneeling in front of Kyle. There’s come and spit running down Kyle’s chin and when DeMar leans in to kiss him, Kyle tries to dodge. DeMar’s hand is still on the back of his neck, though, and so DeMar presses him forward one last time, apologetically, sucks his lips clean, chases the taste of himself deeper into Kyle’s mouth. DeMar reaches his other hand down into Kyle’s pants, wanting to draw him out, take his turn sucking him off.

“You came?” DeMar asks, incredulous, not sure if he’s disappointed or overcome by it. 

Kyle hesitates, then nods, unable to meet DeMar’s eyes. “I like it,” he says, very softly, his voice low and wrecked. 

It drives everything out of DeMar’s mind except kissing him again, lazy and slow, his hand still on Kyle’s dick, thumb absently rubbing up and down the velvet skin there. Kyle falls back off his knees, sprawled out against the wall, and DeMar keeps him there, feeling the desperate jerks of his hips. 

The lights click off, leaving them in darkness. It shocks DeMar enough that he stops kissing Kyle, aware suddenly of the ache of his knees against the concrete floor, of how Kyle’s must hurt worse than his. He pulls back, drags himself upright. The lights click back on in time for him to see Kyle running a hand across his lower lips, other hand gripping his own thigh too tight, forehead wrinkled in something DeMar can only think of as pain. 

He offers Kyle a hand, automatically, like Kyle’s on the floor because he took a charge, not because DeMar kept him there, and Kyle takes it, equally automatic, pulling himself up to standing. 

They’re very close. There’s sweat drying on the back of DeMar’s neck, come on DeMar’s hand and sticky between Kyle’s thighs, at the corner of Kyle’s mouth. 

“We should get you cleaned up,” he says, reaching up to touch Kyle’s face, but Kyle ducks away. 

“It’s fine,” Kyle says, voice still gravelly. “I can deal with it.” 

DeMar feels like he’s shut out from himself, no air in his lungs, his heart twisting out of his chest without his permission. 

“I’m not your girlfriend,” Kyle says, and DeMar knows, he knows because if Kyle were he wouldn’t hurt him like that, wouldn’t want to, would be able to keep the worst parts of himself in check. If they were together, Kyle would let DeMar touch him afterwards. He’d want DeMar to, because DeMar would be a person who made him feel good, not a person who held him down and fucked his face and took and took. 

“I know,” DeMar says, and lets Kyle go.

**four**

They keep fucking. DeMar didn’t think they would, except a few days later, on the flight to LA, Kyle sits next to DeMar and they watch a movie, like usual, and DeMar gives Kyle his fries, like usual and then after everyone else is asleep Kyle leans in and whispers, “I see you looking,” and before DeMar can apologize, Kyle has a hand on his dick.

DeMar has to bite down on the side of his hand to keep quiet. He tries to reach down, stop Kyle, but it just ends up with his right hand gripped tight around Kyle’s wrist, his fingers spanning it, feeling the flutter of Kyle’s pulse and coming in his hand. Afterwards, Kyle lets DeMar work him to hardness, holds still as DeMar jerks him off. DeMar knows better than to try to clean him up afterwards, wipes his own hand clean on the inside pocket of his sweatshirt, feels dirty the rest of the way to California, Kyle asleep beside him.

DeMar knows he’s being stupid. He’s slept with plenty of girls he wasn’t in love with. Well, maybe not plenty, but at least some. It’s just easier, when he trusts the person, not to worry so much about his acne scars or the dumb sounds he makes. It’s easier when he knows how to read them, knows which sighs are contented and which are desperate and which mean to back off a little. 

The mechanics with Kyle are a little different, but that’s all. He knows how to make Kyle laugh, knows his coffee order, his complex feelings about the Rocky movies. It shouldn’t be that different to know he likes getting held down in bed.

The first time Kyle strains against him, when DeMar’s holding his wrists above his head, DeMar backs off. The second time he knows better, puts more of his strength behind it until Kyle goes limp and still.

“You like that?” DeMar asks, worried, against his skin. It’s midafternoon. They’re in his bed in Toronto, the whole evening ahead of him. 

They’d been playing video games earlier, and then kissing on the couch, and Kyle had tried to get down on his knees.

“Bed?” DeMar had asked, feeling stupid for wanting it. It had brought Kyle up short, for a second, his hands frozen on DeMar’s fly before he’d nodded. But Kyle had pulled his clothes off on the way up the stairs, looked over his shoulder at DeMar as he cocked his hip and pulled his jeans down and DeMar’s mouth had gone dry. 

Now, skin on skin, Kyle underneath him, DeMar can barely breath. 

“You like that?” he asks again, still soft, his lips just brushing over Kyle’s collar bone, squeezing a little tighter on Kyle’s wrists to make the question clear.

“Yes,” Kyle says, like it’s gut-punched out of him. DeMar bites down, hard, and feels Kyle’s hips jerk up against his. DeMar runs a hand down, his thumb stroking at the hollow of Kyle’s hipbone, his fingers digging into Kyle’s ass. 

“You want it,” DeMar says, and he means it wonderingly, but Kyle keens, eyes squeezing shut as he shakes his head desperately. 

DeMar sits up between Kyle’s legs, spreading them just a little. Kyle gasps and thrusts against the air, pointlessly, looking for friction. His dick is hard in his briefs, a wet patch growing there. 

DeMar needs to think, but he can’t because the longer he looks the more desperate Kyle gets, turning, trying to push against him, making little half-moans. He’s so hard and he just wants to press inside Kyle and around him and never let go. He just wants to know Kyle wants it. 

“Hey,” he says, and Kyle’s eyes snap open, but he’s still moving relentlessly, trying to work himself down against DeMar and up free of his hold. DeMar takes a deep breath, his hand shaking, and backhands him. 

Kyle goes perfectly still, his lips parted, eyes wide, head tilted back like an offering. DeMar feels frozen too, looking at him, his heart all the way out of his chest, every feeling uncontainable. 

“Can I fuck you?” he asks, his grip on Kyle coming loose, but Kyle leaves his hands where they are. The golden light falls between and around them and the air feels thick in DeMar’s lungs, like he’s breathing underwater. 

Kyle nods, but it’s not enough; DeMar needs to hear him say it, needs to know that at least in this way, he wants DeMar. 

“Ask for it,” DeMar says, and it cracks something between them, Kyle surging up to kiss him, DeMar’s arms tight around his back. 

“Fuck me,” Kyle says, into the kiss, and DeMar bites at his mouth, “fuck me, please, I want it, please.” 

They’re kissing again, frantic, DeMar grinding down against Kyle, cupping Kyle’s face with one hand. Kyle has his legs wrapped around DeMar, as if DeMar could pull away from him. DeMar scrapes his nails down Kyle’s side, his hand coming to the swell of Kyle’s ass and resting there. 

“God,” DeMar says, and Kyle clings to him, coming up off the bed to keep kissing. They can’t untangle long enough for DeMar to get Kyle the rest of the way naked; every time he tries to push away Kyle pulls him back.

“Please, please,” Kyle says, each time. It makes DeMar’s chest ache. There’s no way to keep his distance, not now, with Kyle’s briefs finally off, the head of Kyle’s dick rubbing wet against DeMar’s abs. He can’t do this. He has to do this.

“You need it that bad,” DeMar says, and Kyle cries out. DeMar has to hold Kyle down with one hand on the center of his chest so that he can reach for the lube. Kyle whimpers when DeMar pulls back, but stays in place.

“I got you, ok?” DeMar says. He doesn’t; he doesn’t have Kyle. It takes him two tries to get the lube cap off one-handed. 

“DeMar,” Kyle says, trying to sit up and kiss DeMar while clumsily reaching for the bottle “I can. You don’t have to.” 

DeMar pushes him back down, kisses him until Kyle stays in place, dazed. He squeezes some lube onto the soft skin of Kyle’s stomach, drops the bottle off the bed, runs his fingers through the mess over and over. 

“I’m in charge,” he says. Kyle shudders and rolls his hips up, his legs relaxing apart. 

“Slut,” DeMar tells him, soft, careful, in case it lands wrong, but Kyle moves uncontrollably, grabbing at DeMar’s arm and sobbing out a breath. DeMar presses a finger into him, running his other hand up and down the vulnerable skin of Kyle’s inner thigh. Kyle presses a hand over his face, like he’s trying to hide something, but his body is rocking against DeMar desperately, his breath hitching. 

“Look at you,” DeMar says, sliding another finger in, light-headed with how bad he wants Kyle, how soon he’ll be inside him. It’s all-consuming. He stretches forward to kiss Kyle. “You’re beautiful.” 

Kyle jerks his head to the side, avoiding the kiss, snorts a laugh. “You’re already in me,” he pants out, hips rolling sinuously against DeMar’s hand. “You can stop,” he gasps; he must have found a good angle. “Lying.” DeMar goes still; Kyle arches his back, pinching one of his own nipples, his eyes squeezed shut. “And just fuck me.” 

DeMar does. He hooks Kyle’s leg over his shoulder, pulls his fingers out and pushes in. Kyle cries out, one hand over his head to grip the edge of the mattress, the other knotted in the sheets. DeMar keeps his strokes punishingly hard and even, his head hanging down between his shoulders. It still feels desperately good, the clutch of Kyle’s body, the heat, the noises Kyle makes. 

“Get yourself off,” DeMar says, and it sounds ugly to him but Kyle lets out a single, shattered, “oh,” and does, working a hand between their bodies and jacking himself off. He comes on DeMar’s dick like that, fast, making little astonished noises. Before he’s finished shaking, DeMar pulls out and starts jerking himself off. Kyle makes a pleading sound, and that, more than anything, pushes DeMar over. He comes, adding to the mess on Kyle’s stomach, and then collapses on top of him.

Kyle is shaking, a fine, full-body tremor, underneath DeMar, his faced buried in the crook of DeMar’s neck. DeMar carefully brings his hand up to cup the back of Kyle’s neck. When Kyle doesn’t jerk away, he strokes his thumb up and down the tendons there. Kyle nods, barely perceptible against DeMar. DeMar lets go of himself fully, releases the tension he’s carefully kept on his elbow, his knee, the edges of himself not touching Kyle. Lets Kyle take his full weight. 

Nothing changes. Kyle takes a deep breath, then another, deeper and more even. DeMar runs his thumb along the base of Kyle’s skull. Somewhere in the distance, a truck rumbles past, birds cry out for each other, the sun starts to set. DeMar presses a kiss to Kyle’s cheek. He doesn’t react; already asleep.

**five**

They win in Miami and Ibaka drags them out. Even before they’re inside the club, the air sticks to DeMar’s skin.

“How can anyone live like this?” he asks Kyle. He feels like his eyes are melting off, like he just played 48 minutes. The sun is long-down.

Kyle’s in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, a deliberately unimpressed expression on his face. “Reminds me of summers at home,” he says. DeMar’s eyes get stuck on the expanse of Kyle’s chest, his shirt already a little wet. 

“Come on,” Siakam says, nudging them both forward and past the bouncer. 

“Relax,” Kyle says. “You even old enough to drink in the States?” But Siakam’s already gone into the crowd. 

It’s even hotter inside than outside, louder, darker. DeMar can feel the throb of the base in his neck. Kyle says something, but it’s lost between them. DeMar puts his hand on Kyle’s back, between his shoulder blades to steer them somewhere quieter, so he doesn’t lose Kyle in the press of people.

They end up leaning against a railing, looking down on the dance floor. Maybe Kyle’s looking for their teammates; DeMar is looking at Kyle. He’s braced on his forearms. DeMar likes them, how strong they are, how smooth his skin is there. There’s a fine shimmer of sweat across them. They’re unmarked; Kyle doesn’t have any ink, but DeMar wants to trace the fine lines of his bones. Wants to watch him get tattooed. 

Kyle bumps his hips into DeMar’s, lightly. “Hey, big guy.” 

“Hey,” DeMar says back, smiling down at him, stupid. The music is still smotheringly loud, DeMar has to lean in close to Kyle’s ear.

Kyle’s still scanning the room, a point guard on guard. “There’s some girls over there,” he begins, but DeMar isn’t paying attention. Instead, he rests a hand on Kyle’s wrist, strokes his thumb up the smooth skin on the underside, then back down. Kyle goes abruptly silent.

“I gotta remember that for the next time you won’t shut up,” DeMar says, trying to make it a joke. He can’t stop tracing lines of Kyle’s tendons, feeling the coiled strength there, the soft vulnerability of his pulse. Kyle’s mouth is hanging open and when DeMar ducks his head down lower, he can hear the pant of Kyle’s breath.

Kyle turns to look at him, dark eyes wide, and they’re so close it would be easy to kiss him. The music changes abruptly, the base going honey-thick and slow, telling DeMar just how he should be pushing his hips against Kyle’s. 

Kyle swallows and DeMar tracks the movement despite himself, squeezes down just a little on Kyle’s wrist. He swears he can feel Kyle’s pulse jump under his thumb, but maybe it’s his own. He isn’t thinking, can’t, the alchemy of Kyle’s skin and way the cotton of his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the sweet curve of his ass in his sweatpants, the heartbeat baseline taking over.

It’s the easiest thing in the world to come behind Kyle, pin his other wrist down, grind up against him. The planes of Kyle’s face catching the colored lights coming up from the dance floor. His mouth is half-open, his head listing forward. 

“Kyle,” DeMar says, low, and he can feel an answer welling up in Kyle’s body. He twists his head enough to kiss Kyle’s temple, his fresh-water post-game smell mixing with the equally familiar smell of sweat. Kyle’s grips the railing tight, pushes back against DeMar with the beat. God, DeMar wants devour him, to possess and ruin him, to rinse him clean. He has to sheath his teeth to kiss Kyle’s neck. Then the song changes, the base withdrawing. Somewhere below them, people cheer. Kyle starts. 

“Hotel?” Kyle asks.

“Yeah,” DeMar says, rocking one last time back against him, squeezing Kyle’s wrist.

It seems like it takes an eternity for the car to come. While they’re waiting, around the corner from the entrance to the club, DeMar taking deep breaths of muggy night air that never seem to be quite enough, he reaches out for Kyle’s hand. Kyle flinches back and DeMar’s heart flinches too. Kyle’s eyes dart away, towards the light and sound spilling around the building, then back to DeMar, and DeMar shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down at the sidewalk. 

“I mean, that was dumb,” Kyle says, starting the converstation in the middle, like he does. “Right? I mean.” He rubs his hand over his face, blows on a long breath through his lips. “Why would you. You just don’t get.” He paces in the golden well of the street light. “Guys don’t do that.”

The sidewalk’s wet; maybe it rained while they were inside. DeMar doesn’t like thinking about Kyle and other guys. The stuff they did to him. There’s a heat surging inside him, a fire that’s past controlling, throwing off smoke that chokes him.

“Say something,” Kyle demands. 

“I wanted to,” DeMar says, risking a glance up. Their eyes catch. Kyle looks like DeMar must; wide-eyed, tired, desperate. DeMar looks down at his phone; their car is still three minutes away. 

“Don’t you —” Kyle begins, and then DeMar is kissing him, pressing him hard against the wall. 

“— think,” Kyle continues, dazed, when DeMar pulls back. All DeMar ever does is think, his mind going in circles and writing catastrophes. DeMar kisses him again, savage, bites his lower lip and presses him against the wet stucco until his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

The drive to the hotel is an eternity. Their eyes are locked, DeMar’s fuse shortening with every green light they drive through. Kyle licks his lips and DeMar doesn’t know if it’s conscious or not. 

_Im gonna fuck u_ he texts Kyle, just to watch Kyle try to control himself, squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them again, grinding his knuckes against his hip bone. He’s hard in his sweats. 

DeMar gets them through the lobby. There’s an older man and woman in the elevator with them, chatting in Spanish. DeMar meets Kyle’s glance in the polished metal of the elevator door. The ping of the elevator makes him jump and Kyle snorts a laugh.

“Loser,” Kyle says, and DeMar follows him out into the hallway, fiddling for his key in his pocket. It still takes him two tries to get the door to open, and then he’s pushing Kyle inside and they’re kissing again, frantic and desperate in the dark, until DeMar gropes for the light switch. He wants to look at Kyle in the light, see his familiar and beloved face. Kyle looks down and away, eyes uncertain, turns around and presses back against DeMar like they’re still at the club.

DeMar knows he has to say something, something Kyle will like, that will get him off, something that isn’t _You’re beautiful._

“You wanted me to fuck you right there, where anyone could see what a little bitch you are,” DeMar says, low into Kyle’s ear. Kyle’s knees go out, and he falls against DeMar’s chest. 

“Say it,” he says, bringing his hand up to Kyle’s neck. Kyle tips his head back so the crown of it is resting just above DeMar’s heart, the line of his throat exposed. It’s clear what he’s asking for, wordlessly. His eyelashes are fluttering, open and shut, his lips parted. DeMar squeezes down, just barely, terrified of hurting him. 

“I’m a little bitch,” Kyle says, his hips working compulsively back into DeMar’s. He’s obviously hard in his sweatpants but his hands hang loose at his sides, like he’s forgotten he can touch himself. He’s limp against DeMar, panting. When DeMar tightens his hand just a fraction, just for a second, on Kyle’s neck, Kyle gasps, twists as much as he can in DeMar’s hold, gives DeMar a shower of open mouth kisses to his collarbone. 

“Please,” he begs. DeMar chokes him again, experimental, and Kyle gives off a helpless moan, one of his hands scrabbling behind him, at DeMar’s thigh. “Please, please,” he repeats.

DeMar loosens his grip but keeps his hand in place, stroking his thumb up and down over Kyle’s pulse. Kyle seems so fragile, small in his arms, but when DeMar runs his other hand down and in to Kyle’s sweatpants, he can feel Kyle leaking into his hand. 

“Jesus,” he says, his hips pushing back against Kyle’s. “Look at you.” He makes sure to keep the warmth out of his voice. Kyle, trapped between the hand on his neck and the one on his dick, convulses against DeMar. 

“DeMar,” Kyle says, and DeMar squeezes the base of his dick. 

“Did I say you could talk?” he says, into Kyle’s ear. He takes his hand from Kyle’s neck and shoves his fingers into Kyle’s mouth. Kyle sucks on them as DeMar runs his thumb along the corner of Kyle’s lips. 

“I love your mouth,” he says, too soft, and then, to cover for it, “you’re so desperate for it.” He pushes Kyle’s sweats and underwear down so they pool at his ankles, hobbling him. “Everyone can see how bad you want to get fucked.” Kyle takes DeMar’s fingers deeper, making helpless sounds. 

He pushes himself up against Kyle, knows Kyle can feel how hard he is through his jeans, knows Kyle can feel the cold of his belt buckle, the rough fabric on his bare ass. He takes a deep breath, trying to settle himself, make a plan.

“Stay there,” he tells Kyle, pulling his hands away, wiping them both on Kyle’s shirt. Kyle leans forward against the wall, panting, running his hand over his face and neck over and over, chest heaving. DeMar goes to his suitcase, digs the lube out of the outside pocket. The bottle’s mostly empty. He palms it, heads back over to Kyle. 

“Shirt off,” he says to Kyle, who pulls it off, trembling. DeMar pushes him, so his back hits the wall with a dull thud. 

“Get on your knees,” and Kyle goes, fast, pressing his face into DeMar’s thigh, clutching at his calf. DeMar runs a gentle hand over his head, and he can see Kyle pinching himself. He bites his lip, gets his shit together and tugs at Kyle’s hair, hard. Kyle whimpers. DeMar undoes his belt one-handed, popping the button on his fly and pulling Kyle’s head in.

“Show me what that pretty mouth is good for,” DeMar says, and it’s obvious Kyle’s into it from the way he trembles under DeMar’s hand, takes DeMar down. DeMar fucks his face the way Kyle likes, tugs on his hair, makes Kyle choke on his dick. If feels good; of course it feels good, the little noises of pleasure Kyle makes reverberating up through him. 

He brings a hand down to feel the stretch of Kyle’s lips around his cock, the spit and precome leaking out of the corners of Kyle’s mouth. 

“God,” DeMar says, leaning his head back. He loosens his grip on Kyle, losing himself to it. Kyle makes a frustrated sound, takes him even deeper. 

“Kyle,” DeMar says, and Kyle goes further down and then pulls back, coughing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He hangs his head, rests it against DeMar’s thigh again, panting. DeMar rubs his cheek, gentle, reminded absurdly of during a game when Kyle taps his own chest, taking the blame for a bad play. He wants to kiss him. 

He can feel Kyle go still against his leg, knows he’s being too soft, too stupid about Kyle, needs to course correct. 

“Such a fucking idiot,” DeMar says, “can’t even do this right.” 

Kyle tenses up, DeMar can feel it against his leg, under his hand, in the crack in his chest.

“Kyle?” he asks, carefully moving his hand to rest on Kyle’s shoulder. “You good?”

Kyle looks up at him, brown eyes huge, pupils wide. There are tears in the corner of them. His lips are a mess. He’s frozen. 

“We can stop,” DeMar says, “I could blow you?” He’s hasn’t gotten to yet; he’d still like to try. “We can just. Go to sleep?” 

“No,” Kyle says. His voice is hoarse. “Don’t you want to come on my face?” He sucks the head of DeMar’s dick into his mouth and DeMar has to close his eyes, going light-headed with the sensation. “Inside me?” 

“Fuck,” DeMar says, his hand tightening on Kyle’s shoulder despite himself. He wants to, wants to feel like Kyle is his. But he still doesn’t know what he did wrong. 

“C’mon,” Kyle says, sitting back on his heels; DeMar can see how hard he is, he looks up through his eyelashes. “Please fuck me.” 

It should sound fake; it doesn’t. It goes through DeMar like wildfire and he hauls Kyle up off the floor, pressing him into the wall and finally kissing him. Kyle opens his mouth wide for it, spreads his legs, shuddering against DeMar. DeMar struggles to pull his own shirt off without breaking the kiss, needing to feel Kyle’s skin against his.

He pulls Kyle towards the bed and Kyle goes, easily, gets on his hands and knees. DeMar wishes they could keep kissing, during, but instead he bites, hard, at Kyle’s thighs, to watch them shake. 

“You want it?” he asks, squirting lube on his fingers and trailing them down, rubbing a slow circle with his thumb. Kyle nods, pushes back against DeMar’s hand. DeMar pushes two fingers in, and Kyle gives a sobbing exhale, clenching and loosening around him. 

“You like that, don’t you,” DeMar says. “Slut.” He can feel the shudder that goes through Kyle from inside him and he has to press his forehead against Kyle’s back and breathe through how much he wants Kyle, the raw desperation to flip him over and push inside him, kiss him until he comes untouched and lick his stomach clean. He bites down hard, again, on the curve of Kyle’s ass, trying to mark Kyle with every unsaid word. Manages to keep fucking Kyle with his fingers.

“Beg for it,” he says to Kyle, and he’s not sure whose voice is more wrecked, once Kyle starts, a litany of please, please, please, moving his hips back against DeMar. He knows he could make Kyle do anything like this, say anything, and the temptation is nearly overwhelming. That he needs DeMar, that DeMar’s the only one who can give it to him like this, that he loves him. He jams his fingers into Kyle’s mouth again to stop himself, hooking them and tugging just a little bit. It forces Kyle’s head up and back so DeMar can get a better look at him. 

“Slut,” he says again, and Kyle closes his eyes, blissful, working his tongue along the pads of DeMar’s fingers. 

He has to slick himself up one handed, sliding his fingers out of Kyle’s mouth to do it.

“Please, please pleaseplease,” Kyle begs, frantic. DeMar braces himself and pushes into him, brings a hand back up to wrap around Kyle’s throat. It takes concentration, fucking deep into Kyle, keeping enough pressure on his neck to rip tiny, shaking sounds out of him, like he’s forgotten how to talk.

He wraps his other hand around Kyle’s dick, making him take their weight. Kyle cries out, dropping his head down, and DeMar releases his throat, kisses the back of his head.

“Say you want me to come inside you,” DeMar says, voice uneven. He twists his hand, hard, around Kyle’s dick and feels Kyle’s body flutter. It makes his thrusts jagged. “Say it.”

“Please,” Kyle pushes back against him. “Please, DeMar.” His head is bowed and DeMar wants to see his face, wants to bury himself inside Kyle. He bites down on the back of Kyle’s neck and Kyle gasps. “Come inside me.” 

As a reward, DeMar runs his thumbnail around the head of Kyle’s dick, fucks into him. Kyle comes, nearly silent, collapsing forward onto the bed. 

DeMar pulls out long enough to roll Kyle onto his back, hooks one of his legs over DeMar’s shoulders then slides back in. Kyle moans, softly, and DeMar can feel the mess of his come between them. He buries his face in Kyle’s neck, pressing kisses to his pulse point. It feels disastrously good, covering Kyle, surrounding him, hearing the little noises he makes. His hips stutter, chasing the sensation deeper, and he gives himself over to it and comes.

Kyle mewls softly when he pulls out, and DeMar presses his weight more firmly down onto Kyle, pulling his thigh up so that Kyle can rock against it. Kyle’s shivering, fast, fine shakes like he walked outside in a blizzard without a coat, and the tighter DeMar wraps himself around Kyle, the worse they get. 

“Kyle?” DeMar asks, uncertainty slicing his chest open. “You good?” 

Kyle nods, but he dips his head, tucking it under DeMar’s shoulder. The tremors aren’t stopping, and when DeMar runs a slow hand carefully down Kyle’s arm he can feel him shudder, drawing himself into a tighter ball.

“Kyle?” DeMar asks again. He thinks of the way Kyle went still while he was blowing DeMar, _with fear_ his brain provides. DeMar must have done something, said something, hurt him too much or in the wrong way. And then kept going, as if he didn’t know how Kyle plays injured, bruised and half-healed every night. All because he wanted to feel close to him, wanted to force Kyle to say things he’d never say. 

His heart feels like jagged chunk of ice. He rolls off of Kyle. His limbs feel heavy, weighed down and disconnected from him. Terror’s rising in his chest, choking him. Fuck, he choked Kyle, he pushed Kyle against a wall after Kyle pulled away from him: every wrong choice he made coming back to him at once. He isn’t aware his breath has sped up until it’s going so fast he feels like he’s drowning on dry land.

“DeMar?” Kyle answers, voice fragile. His hand ghosts against DeMar’s shoulder and this time DeMar’s the one who shudders uncontrollably. “Are you.” 

The touch is unbearably gentle. DeMar hates it, can’t endure it. He should pull away, should lock himself in the bathroom, but some pathetic part of him needs to know Kyle is whole, unhurt. He looks over at Kyle, his ruined lips, the ghosts of tear-tracks down his cheeks, and his heart shatters in his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” Kyle says, his touch still feather-light. DeMar reaches up, just to run his fingers across Kyle’s knuckles once, but Kyle grabs for his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

DeMar can’t say anything to that; he doesn’t understand what Kyle is apologizing for. Then Kyle rests his head on DeMar’s chest and DeMar knows he shouldn’t, but this is something Kyle needs, something he can still give. So he wraps an arm around Kyle and pulls the blanket up over them both, curls close into his warmth until he drifts into an uneasy sleep.

**and one**

DeMar’s lying in bed, on top of the horribly textured quilt, left sneaker still on. They’re in Arizona. It’s late, after two maybe, but it feels ever later. He couldn’t sleep on the flight here; hasn’t been able to sleep for the better part of a week now. There’s a dull ache in his left hand; he sprained it maybe six hours ago, at the end of the third quarter.

He’d done press with it, ignoring the pain, the nauseatingly crooked angle of it. Once they’d boarded the plane, he’d gone to see the trainer, sat next to her while she splinted it for him.

“Good thing you’re not married,” she’d said, “or we’d have had to cut the ring off.” DeMar had dry swallowed a few Percocet. By the time he got back to his usual seat, Kyle was asleep, his hoodie pulled up to hide his face, curled against a pillow. His second blanket was slipping off his lap. DeMar pulled it back into place, and went to sit with Serge.

Now, the pills have kicked in and everything feels distant and unreal. He should undress the rest of the way, turn out the lights, but he can’t bring himself to. Every time he shuts his eyes he sees Kyle: frozen on his knees, shaking in his arms, slapped cheeks and wide, overflowing eyes. He knows he can’t trust himself with Kyle anymore. But having to relive everything they did — everything he’s done — on sleepless nights, for the rest of the season, for the rest of his life. God. He can’t live with that either.

Someone knocks on his door, once, twice, then in an insistent stream. There’s only one person who knocks like that.

He takes his time, but Kyle keeps knocking, stupid rythms that must be some kind of inside joke with himself, the drumlines of songs only he remembers. 

“Hey,” DeMar says, when he gets to the door. Kyle’s leaning against the door frame. 

“You look terrible,” Kyle says, pushing inside. “I thought you broke your hand, not your face.”

DeMar snorts, not quite a laugh. “It’s just a sprain. You didn’t need to,” he flops down onto the bed rather than finish the sentence, wincing when the movement jars his fingers.

“You were up there with the trainer forever, I thought they were amputating,” Kyle says, sitting down next to him. “You seriously still have a shoe on? In bed?” 

DeMar shuts his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, heavily. This is the most they’ve talked off the court since Miami, at least, without someone around. He can feel the mattress shifting and then Kyle’s hands, careful on the laces.

“Don’t,” DeMar says, but Kyle pulls the shoe off carefully, drops it on the floor. His hand is wrapped around DeMar’s ankle, thumb brushing against the smooth skin overlying the bone.

“You gotta relax,” Kyle says. He doesn’t sound mean or dismissive, the way most people who say that to DeMar do. 

DeMar opens his eyes. Kyle is looking at him, dark and intent, kneeling next to him. He’s stroking his thumb gently across DeMar’s ankle and the touch makes DeMar light-headed. DeMar knows he can’t do this, but his body is already turning itself over to the feeling. 

“What do you want?” Kyle asks, running his hand up DeMar’s leg, under his pants. DeMar’s already breathing careful conscious breaths through his mouth, unable to get enough air.

DeMar knows what he should say. It shouldn’t be hard. DeMar has spent his life depriving himself of what he wanted: staying in the gym late in middle school instead of playing video games with his friends, waking up two hours early in high school to lift weights, choking down protein shakes at USC when he was already so full he felt nauseous, getting on the plane to Toronto that first time without his mom. He’s made himself do so many hard things, to keep hold of the promise of the future. He can make himself do this; tell Kyle he can’t, anymore. 

Instead, he says, “can you.” 

“What?” Kyle asks, rubbing careful small circles on DeMar’s skin. His hands are so good. If this is the last time, DeMar wants Kyle inside him. He doesn’t know how he can feel empty; hungry like this for something he’s never had. “DeMar, anything. You know I’ll do it.” 

DeMar does know. Kyle’s hands are at his waist, hovering just above his skin. DeMar pushes himself up on his arms to kiss Kyle. It’s sloppy immediately, DeMar biting at Kyle’s lips, grabbing for the back of his neck. Kyle sucks DeMar’s tongue into his mouth, gripping DeMar’s hipbones.

“Can you,” DeMar says, against his mouth. He can’t stop kissing for long enough to get out a full sentence; feels desperate, lightheaded. “Can you finger me?” 

Kyle goes still against him and DeMar’s heart stops. 

“You don’t have to,” DeMar says, pulling away. He sits the rest of the way up, his abs protesting a little, curls his legs in, close to his chest. 

“You’re straight,” Kyle says, face blank, just out of arm’s reach. 

“What?” DeMar says, brought up short. It takes him a second even to understand the words. “What the fuck?”

“It’s fine,” Kyle says, but his voice is tight. “You don’t have to keep doing,” Kyle gestures towards DeMar, aggravated, like he’s pointing a foul out to a ref, “all this shit. It’s not Valentine’s Day and I’m not your girlfriend you’re trying to get to do anal, ok? We both know I’m a slut.” 

“Don’t,” DeMar says, his voice choked. He doesn’t know where to start. 

Kyle snorts a laugh. “What? It’s only ok when you say it? I get that this is a fun way to spend your time before you get a girlfriend and get married or whatever. I like sucking dick. It’s good.”

DeMar can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t process what Kyle’s saying about himself, about DeMar, let alone how to respond to it. Kyle’s breathing the wet wounded breaths of an injured animal and DeMar knows he needs to pull himself together. He shuts his eyes, inhales, exhales, trying to find the steadiness they both need.He realizes, distantly, he’s furious, his hands and his mind rock steady. 

“Jesus, Kyle,” he says, his voice like steel. “Who were you hooking up with?” 

Kyle shrugs, shoulders set. “It doesn’t matter, ok? The point is —” 

“It fucking matters,” DeMar says, his voice low, tense, “who did this to you.” 

Kyle collapses in on himself, the tension in his shoulders snapping. He swallows, looks down at his hands, teeth digging into his lower lip. DeMar waits. Kyle tugs at the hem of his shirt, bites at a cuticle before he looks back up at DeMar for half a second and then back down at his lap. 

“I. A lot of people,” he says, soft, ashamed. 

DeMar bites at the inside of his lip until he can taste the cooper tint of blood. “I’m never going to do that, ok? I’d.” He cuts himself off before he says anything more, his whole body tense with the effort of it, has to take a couple deep breaths before he can reach out. He puts his hand on Kyle’s knee, can feel how tight Kyle’s muscles are, still.

“You’d what?” Kyle asks, his voice delicate.

“Date you,” DeMar says, after a moment. It’s the most sane way to complete that sentence, although he can think of others. Kyle darts a look up at him, his lips parted, hope fragile across his face. He’s still and DeMar thinks he can hear both of their heartbeats. 

“Also I uh. Like guys too,” he says, feeling suddenly awkward. 

“I’m getting that,” Kyle says, with a little laugh, ducking his head. DeMar rubs slow circles with his thumb, leans in, careful, bending down a little so that he can kiss Kyle. Kyle kisses back, slow, until DeMar pulls back, nuzzles against him, kisses him again. 

“So you want me to put a finger up your butt,” Kyle says, pulling back, a stupid grin on his face.

“Maybe tomorrow,” DeMar says, flopping back against the pillows, pulling Kyle down on top of him. The bitter adrenaline from before is fading, leaving warm lassitude in its wake. Tomorrow morning: kissing Kyle in the morning light, lazy sleepy sex, precious because it isn’t rare. He bites gently at the soft skin of Kyle’s ear lobe, feels Kyle settling down against him. The contented rise and fall of his chest.

“I guess I am your girlfriend who does anal after all,” Kyle says, after a little, laughing at his own joke.

“Idiot,” DeMar laughs, his lips against Kyle’s neck, all the love he feels in his voice. He brings his hand to rest on Kyle’s lower back, feeling the channels of muscle there, the dimples just above his ass, strokes up and down.

“Wanna get room service before we go to sleep?” DeMar asks, after a moment. 

“I do,” Kyle says. DeMar presses a kiss to Kyle’s temple, Kyle cuddles in even closer to DeMar, DeMar winds their legs together, and neither of them move.

**Author's Note:**

> standard disclaimer: this fic is just a product of my imagination and in no way real, please please don't share this fic with anyone mentioned in it.
> 
> thank you to [jamwingles](http://jamwingles.tumblr.com) and [Emmy](http://veryspecificfantasties.tumblr.com) as always for their help and kindness. the title here is from lizzo. 
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com), screaming about basketball and so much more.


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